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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645824">wandering wretch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootforbrains/pseuds/sootforbrains'>sootforbrains</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dream Smp, Minecraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:48:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645824</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootforbrains/pseuds/sootforbrains</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And sometimes, the dead begin to forget who they were in life. Wilbur Soot begins to fade away with the nation he onced loved.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>wandering wretch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TW // death, angst <br/>As always, no gore.<br/>Enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Kill me.</i>
</p>
<p>Wilbur’s feet made no sound as he padded along the grass; as he tread the edge of the crater in the ground, letting his mind wander off to its comfortably silent place. He didn’t quite know what this place was--though it was painfully familiar, and it tugged at him vaguely--but he liked to gaze upon the exposed earth, overturned and gutted for all the world to see. Caves once buried underneath now held themselves vacant to the skies, and pools of water which had once been hidden by layers of earth now free to flow beneath the sun’s mighty eye. It was calming, for Wilbur, to gaze out on; there was something beautiful about the destruction of it all, something horribly poetic about the crumbling away of land, houses, the churning of the world below.</p>
<p>He often wondered how it had happened.</p>
<p>Tonight was a rather chilly night--although every night was cold, really. His sweater kept him partially warm, if he wrapped it tight enough around himself. </p>
<p>Although, it was stained crimson, right in the center, a jagged, gaping hole leaving the fabric in tatters. He often found his hands wandering toward that place in his torso, but they never touched it. Some unknown force kept them away, kept his eyes from looking down entirely, for he knew that if he did, something within him would be ravaged. Something would overturn like the earth he walked upon, and things wouldn’t be the same as they were now.</p>
<p>But for some, strange reason, he kept feeling the urge to look.</p>
<p>Perhaps it would quell the cold.</p>
<p>Perhaps it would quell this strange feeling of emptiness. </p>
<p>He didn’t know this land, though he wished he did. He wished he knew its people; the golden-haired boy with the darting blue eyes; he wished he knew why music discs meant so much to him, or why he jolted at every sudden movement. </p>
<p>And why did he sleep with a beanie eerily similar to the one resting atop Wilbur’s head each night?</p>
<p>And who was this now--the boy with the mismatched buttons and tousled brown hair? Here he was, approaching the edge of the crater just before Wilbur, letting his vacantly innocent gaze settle over the ruined land. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, and let out an earth-shattering sigh.</p>
<p>“I can’t do this,” he muttered, and shook his head with the force of regret.</p>
<p>Wilbur felt himself frown. The boy was distressed, that much was obvious--he wondered if there was a way he would be able to help. </p>
<p>Slowly, he started forward, and said, in a voice that never seemed to feel quite like his own, “Why are you sad?”</p>
<p>The boy jolted, his eyes growing wide as saucers as they landed upon Wilbur. He stumbled backward--from surprise, surely--and held out an arm, as if shielding himself. “You, you’re--” He gasped, choked on his words, his face contorting into a mask of horror. “You’re, you can’t--”</p>
<p>Wilbur’s frown deepened. <i>Why were they always so afraid of him?</i></p>
<p>“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, quietly, but the boy wasn’t listening; he was shaking his head more furiously now, clearing away tears or inner demons or something of the sort. </p>
<p>“You can’t be here. You’re….Phil….” The boy trailed off, and gazed at Wilbur with a curious glint in his eye. “Please don’t hurt me.”</p>
<p>Wilbur felt his heart sink. Was it because he wasn’t like them anymore? Was it because he didn’t know where he was from, and the rest of them did? </p>
<p>Was it because his skin was grayed and peeling, and theirs was flush with life? </p>
<p>
  <i>Was it because I did something horrible?</i>
</p>
<p>“Why would I hurt you?” Wilbur said, his voice a rumble deep within his chest. Misplaced. Unnatural. </p>
<p>“I….Wilbur.” The boy’s eyes went shimmery; he glanced over his shoulder, then back at Wilbur. “You’re….”</p>
<p>
  <i>He knows my name.</i>
</p>
<p>“You know who I am.” Wilbur felt his heart expand, and he started forward again, unable to contain his excitement. “How--how do you know me? Who am I? Where did I come from, and why….?” </p>
<p>He trailed off. </p>
<p>Glanced down at himself. </p>
<p>Felt the cold deepen.</p>
<p>“Why am I like this?” It escaped him in a whisper.</p>
<p>The boy shook his head, his mouth frozen in an O-shape, words stuck behind teeth and not wanting to escape. He had fallen to his knees, had begun to tremble. Wilbur felt like screaming. </p>
<p>He was exasperated.</p>
<p>Nobody could ever give him an answer. </p>
<p>Nobody ever seemed to want to. </p>
<p>“Wil.”</p>
<p>And suddenly, the boy’s gaze landed on something looming behind Wilbur--a figure whose shadow seemed to stretch before him and swallow him completely. </p>
<p>Turning, Wilbur let his eyes land on who had sprung up behind him, who had so graciously revealed himself to be in the presence of this strange world. Someone who Wilbur hadn’t quite seen before, a man with angel wings and a stout, green hat. </p>
<p>“Who are you?” Wilbur felt himself asking.</p>
<p>And then his stomach gave a horrible lurch. </p>
<p>
  <i>You’re not my son.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The discs the wars the masked man the uniforms FREEDOM Tommy and his smile Niki and her bakery Fundy and his utter innocence calling “Look, Dad, look at me!” and then there was Schlatt and the election and oh how we thought we’d won and the exile and how cold it had begun to feel in that cave and how the only way to return to myself was to set fire to everything to watch it burn watch it burn and blow it skyward because if I can’t have it NOBODY CAN isn’t that right Tommy, Tommy why do you look at me like that and why must my son hate me and the button, the button and its horrible grin the festival and the box and Tubbo’s screams as they shattered me and Schlatt’s laughter the writing on the walls how I’d scribbled those lyrics so hastily and how they’d remained with me as I fought and those final days of mine as we shot and fought and clawed our way and the pig mask and his fireworks and his need to overcome death and mine, mine, it was all mine again I just had to hand it over, to hand it over and then push the button and I pushed it and Phil, Dad, the sword, kill me, please--</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Kill me.</i>
</p>
<p>Wilbur felt himself collapse to his knees, felt his cheeks grow cold with the presence of icy tears as he gazed upward at Phil--<i>I remember him, my father, my father Phil, he who never loved me and always wished me dead.</i></p>
<p>“You shouldn’t be here,” said Phil, but his words were far from menacing. In fact, they were dripping in sorrow, in the despair that had tugged at the edges of Wilbur’s subconsciousness ever since--</p>
<p>Since when?</p>
<p>
  <i>Oh God, how long had it been?</i>
</p>
<p>“Phil,” gasped Wilbur, and he let his fingers hover over that bloodstain, let them grasp the tatters of his sweater as tightly as he ever had. “Phil, how do I leave? How do I make it stop?”</p>
<p>“You can’t.” Phil’s words were nothing more than a whisper on the breeze, an uttered curse in the night. “Eternity is a long time, son. And you’ve got to endure every bit of it.”</p>
<p>Wilbur let his fingers burrow into his hair, and for the first time, he felt the weight of what he’d done fall upon his shoulders and crack his bones, snapping them in half one by one and crumbling what remained of his heart into a worthless ball. He let out his breath in a whimper, feeling Phil’s sword once again, remembering those words as they’d slipped through his lips.</p>
<p>
  <i>Kill me.</i>
</p>
<p>Wilbur felt a hand alight upon his shoulder, but he couldn’t bear to look up at his father. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to again.</p>
<p>“I wish I could help you out of this,” he said, voice dripping with what sounded like remorse. “But this is your punishment, it seems. All heroes fall from grace, eventually. Your time came far too soon.”</p>
<p>Phil’s hands slid off of his shoulder as he backed away. “I’m going to leave you, now,” said Phil, and Wilbur looked up, watched him back away, wings jittering with his emotion. “You’ll be back, though. You won’t know it, but you’ll be back to me.”</p>
<p>As Phil walked away, Wilbur felt the cold wash over him again, numbing his hands and clasping his stilled heart. </p>
<p>“Phil….” He reached a hand forward, wishing his father would return to him, wishing he could take it all back, wishing that he could return to those days of childhood where his only worry was teasing Tommy and clashing plastic swords with Techno. </p>
<p>He blinked.</p>
<p>Confusion held him; why was he on the ground?</p>
<p>He blinked again.</p>
<p>The winged man; Wilbur was sure he’d seen him before. But where?</p>
<p>
  <i>And why were there tears in his eyes?</i>
</p>
<p>Wilbur glanced down at himself; the bloodstain was still there, his sweater still tattered. His skin still gray, his heart still dormant and non-beating.</p>
<p>Slowly, he clambered to his feet, glanced behind him. There was the boy with the mismatched buttons, staring at him with peculiar, widened eyes. </p>
<p>How had he gotten here?</p>
<p><i>Why was he trembling?</i> </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he said softly, turning and nodding solemnly toward the winged man. “I didn’t mean to bother you, if I….if I did. I’ll just be on my way, now.”</p>
<p>For he must’ve been a bother, hadn’t he? Why else would the man’s face be twisted with such despair?</p>
<p>And he started forward, back toward the edge of the crater, back toward the path he walked every night, for nights on end. </p>
<p>Back to the edge of faded memories; of flashing blue eyes, music discs, the horns of rams, suits and ties, buttons and writing on the wall. </p>
<p>As he started forward, away from the winged man and boy with the mismatched buttons, he felt himself whimper.</p>
<p>For it was now that he was having trouble remembering his name.</p>
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